They cut Priscilla open because her hips did lie. She could not possibly carry a child with a cranium as big as James Silva’s. He came out of the slashed c pattern across her tummy all the while sleeping, a new life minus the pain of screaming. As the placenta stenched the room, the doctor, the sadist he was, slapped James ferociously across his bottom. Out bellowed the screams and the fury. As usual, jealousy for the short, dark, and handsome features of James played out vehemently in confused communication. The doctor died later from bad Karma.  

This was the sacred day when James Silva was born. Two years later a controlled demolition went off to bring down The Rocky Mountain Hospital. The place where James took his first breath came crashing down while twenty miles away in Commerce City little James pulled up his Pull-Ups™ and became a big boy. Over twenty years James passed from moment to moment depending only on the trajectory of change. Under that banner of change came years of awkward anticipation for perfection that never came. That elusive perfection hid so well, almost perfectly well. The snide bastard. 

Now James is in college. Now he is trying to finalize the maturation process of developing a truce, an understanding, with that soul draining succubus known as "the Establishment."  

Damn.